


The Dark Unconscious Mind of Sam Winchester

by Winnie_Chester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, Nightmares, So much angst, Suicidal Sam, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 02:41:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2635034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winnie_Chester/pseuds/Winnie_Chester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam has that nightmare, that same old terrible, bloody nightmare, again, and completely goes to pieces. </p><p>Very related to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2284899">The Dark Interior Life of Sam Winchester</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2402366">The Spiraling of Sam Winchester</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dark Unconscious Mind of Sam Winchester

Dean was usually the one who had the screaming nightmares.

It was one of the litany of things they didn’t talk about: Jessica, the night Sam had left for Stanford, what Dean had done when Sam was gone, the future, Jar Jar Binks, and Dean’s screaming nightmares. Not that Sam didn’t want to talk about it—like the scar on Dean’s left side and dream catcher, it was a thing Dean hadn’t had before Sam left but did now, all of which made Sam very curious—but Dean had made it very clear that this was not to be a topic of conversation. 

The first time it had happened, on their very first case since Stanford, Sam had the knife in his hand and had been half way across the room before he’d figured out it was just Dean having a nightmare. Dean had brushed it off and made a joke about how it had been just a test to see if Sam still had his reflexes, but the set of his jaw and the shadows in his eyes had told a different story. When Sam had brought it up again the next morning Dean had told him in no uncertain terms to drop it. When he brought it up the third time, Dean had suggested Sam would be tasting blood if he did it again, so he finally had dropped it.

That had been months ago, and Sam still didn’t know what it was that haunted Dean at night. He’d never gotten used to waking up to his brother’s choked cries, but it had gotten woven into their fabric of their life at this point.

But lately it was Sam having the nightmare, and Dean shaking him awake from them. Which was just about the worst way to wake up from this particular dream that Sam could imagine.

It was the third time this month, each a new variation on the same old dream, the one that started with sex and ended with blood and brains and, once awake, absolutely crushing levels of self-loathing, and guilt. 

Dean’s nightmares had gotten worse, too.

Deep down, Sam had always thought he’d die badly, and lately, he thought maybe it was these dreams that would do it. He was on edge and exhausted and as broken as he’d ever felt, picking at his food and drinking oceans of coffee. He was wearing down, all his incredibly good reasons for not swallowing his gun or running away again getting harder to remember. One way or another, it felt inevitable that Sam, that this was going to get them both killed. 

Dean had found and tossed Sam’s caffeine pills earlier, telling Sam that if he didn’t try and get some goddamn sleep tonight, Dean would personally remove Sam from consciousness. It wasn’t an empty threat, and run down like this, Sam was pretty sure Dean wouldn’t have much trouble making good on it. So Sam had watched his brother flush the pills with same sense of panic and horror that any addict would have. 

It felt like the end of his rope. 

Sam had acquiesced to Dean’s, well, it wasn’t exactly a request, and had laid off the coffee and was lying on his bed, but he was still doing his best to beat back sleep. He just—he couldn’t have that dream again. Every time it cut him closer and deeper and he was pretty sure there was almost nothing left of him to flay anymore. 

He was going to end up spending the rest of his life in a white padded room, drugged up to his eyeballs. Maybe, he thought, that is where he belonged. He couldn’t save anyone from in there, but he couldn’t hurt Dean, either. 

***

Sam’s hands were clamped around Dean’s wrists, and Sam had pinned him to the mattress with his weight. Sam’s mouth was hot against Dean’s neck, licking the salt from his skin and breathing in the faint scent of leather and shaving cream. Sam’s dick was painfully hard in his jeans. Dean was saying something, struggling, but Sam couldn’t stop—he was consumed, and somewhere he knew it was wrong. He wanted to stop but his body was betraying him. It was like watching a car crash. 

As always, there were to be no survivors.

***  
Sam woke up to Dean shaking him, asking if he was okay, which was just exactly the worst way to wake up from this particular nightmare. 

Sam pushed Dean’s hands off angrily. “Get your hands the fuck off me, Dean. I’m fine.” 

Dean shot Sam a pissed off look, but moved back to sit on the edge of his bed. “Yeah, I can tell. You are gonna wake the whole motel, dude.”

“So let me!” Sam headed to the bathroom without looking at Dean. He was afraid of what his brother would read in his face. 

He shut the door harder than he intended to, and ran cold water in the sink, splashing it on his face, willing the dream to recede, for his breathing and heart to steady.

These had been easier to recover from when he wasn’t waking Dean up in the middle, when the dream had been allowed to play itself out, and Sam could wake up in the midst of blood and brains, instead of the midst of—the other thing. 

His stomach rolled and he knelt on the floor, but he had nothing in it worth bringing back up. Sam wondered if anyone had ever experienced this specific cocktail of misery before, or if this combination of guilt and shame and unrequited love and dangerousness and anger and self-loathing and fear was uniquely his own. For the love of humanity, he hoped so. He wouldn't wish it on anyone.

Sam was trapped-- he couldn’t leave and he couldn’t stay and he didn’t want this life anymore.

He punched the tile wall, hard enough to rattle the door in its frame. 

Dean was at the door in an instant, trying the knob. “Sam? Lemme in.” All the anger drained out of him. He opened the door, sat on the edge of the tub. Dean stormed inside. 

“What the fuck was that? What did you do?” Sam didn’t answer, and Dean’s eyes narrowed at his’s busted knuckles. “Can I look at that?” Sam didn’t look up, but didn’t fight when Dean grabbed his hand and inspected it. “You dislocated your finger, dumbass.” Dean pushed the bones back in place without warning. Sam hissed and bit his tongue, but didn’t say anything. Dean dropped Sam’s hand. He couldn’t decide if he was more angry or more worried.

Dean sighed. “Damn it, Sam. I don’t know which way is up with you anymore.” 

Sam wondered how long Dean would let him get away with not speaking. Wondered if he could goad Dean into punching him, which, Sam figured, was just about the only thing Dean could do to make Sam feel the slightest bit better about himself. Sam continued staring at the floor. Dean left the bathroom and Sam could hear him putting on his jeans and boots, the snick of the motel room door opening. Sam allowed himself the wild hope that Dean would get in the car, would leave and never come back, but he didn’t hear the growl of the engine. 

Dean would never abandon him. That was strictly Sam’s territory. 

***  
Dean’s nightmares were almost always the same, too. 

They had started the night Sam had left, the night Dean had drunk himself into such oblivion to escape all the fighting that he didn’t hear Sam come back to their room, and he didn’t hear him pack, didn’t hear him leave, didn’t get to say goodbye. But deep down, Dean must have known it was over, because that night, Dean had dreamt Sam dying, alone, in a million different ways. 

He dreamt him ripped open by a hundred different monsters, bloody and mangled, bleeding out onto streets and fields and wooden floors. 

He dreamt a thousand deaths for Sam, and not one offered Dean the chance to save him. Not one even offered Dean the chance to say goodbye. 

It was Dean’s absolute worst fear brought to life, the one thing in life he knew he couldn’t abide and wouldn’t survive. Wouldn’t want to survive.

He woke up screaming every time. 

***

Sam continued to count tiles. Eighty-seven before he heard the door open again and Dean fumbling in his duffel. He reappeared with ice tied up in a t-shirt, and a half bottle of whiskey. He threw the ice at Sam, which he caught reflexively. Sam put it down by his feet. He didn’t want to numb the pain in his hand. 

Dean leaned against the door and took a long pull of whiskey. “I promised I wouldn’t ask. I know you don’t want to talk about it, and I get that, okay? But things can’t keep going on like,” Dean gestured at Sam with the bottle, “ _this._ It just can’t. Neither of us can take it.” 

Dean took another long pull of the whiskey, tried to read the expression on Sam’s downturned face. Tried again. “I need us to be on the same page. I can’t do this without you, Sam. Please let me help you.” 

Sam didn’t respond. 

“Damn it, Sam!” Dean threw the whiskey bottle at the wall behind Sam’s head, and it exploded when it hit the tile, sending shards everywhere. It was a move straight out of The John Winchester Playbook, and Dean hated himself for it, regretted it immediately. 

A bit of flying glass had caught Sam on the cheekbone, but he didn’t even put a hand to it. He deserved every bit of it. 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, Sammy.” Dean grabbed a wad of toilet paper and crouched down, holding it to his brother’s cheek, looking absolutely wrecked. Sam had dreams about raping his brother, and here Dean was going to pieces over what was nearly a paper cut. It was so hilariously indicative of the difference between the two of them that Sam started to laugh, an ugly, choking, sobbing sound. Dean jerked his hand back, looking stricken. Sam thought maybe he’d never stop laughing. 

Everything about it was just so fucking tragic. His brother fought goddamn monsters, was amazing at it, nearly invincible, and the thing that was most likely to kill them both was his own fucked up, psychopathic little brother. 

Sam’s laughter echoed weirdly on the tiled walls—if his shouting hadn’t awakened the entire motel this certainly would—but he couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t stop. Dean hunted every nightmare in the world, had reflexes and intuition even better than their Dad, but he spent almost his entire life sleeping soundly, easily, right next to the worst monster he’d ever encounter. It was nearly hilarious. 

Dean sat back on his heels, shocked, so taken aback his mouth was hanging open. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this. 

Sam tried several times before he managed to pull himself together and stand up. He offered his hand to his brother, pulled Dean up too.

“I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you, Dean. And you have no goddamn idea.”

Sam made a promise to himself-- the least he could do-- shouldered past his brother, and slipped back into bed. Dean continued to stand opened-mouth in the doorway. 

Sam would have the nightmare seven or eight dozen more times, but he'd never wake his brother up with his screaming again.

They didn’t talk about it the next day.


End file.
